Bound and Determined
by jellymankelly
Summary: "Your heart rate increases as you begin to form a mental picture of your position. You can tell you're slouching somewhat, so that the weight of your upper torso forces your hips forward. You test the bindings again. They keep your arms in place, your legs spread wide apart, leaving you open. Vulnerable. Exposed." M for coarse language and sexual themes. One-shot


**Title:** Bound and Determined  
**Pairing:** Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce (Glee)  
**Word Count:** 3,111  
**Rating:** MA for coarse language and sexual situations

**Summary:** "Your heart rate increases as you begin to form a mental picture of your position. You can tell you're slouching somewhat, so that the weight of your upper torso forces your hips forward. You test the bindings again. They keep your arms in place, your legs spread wide apart, leaving you open. Vulnerable. Exposed."

**Disclaimer:** Glee and all related characters are owned by Fox Networks. No profit has been made through the publishing of this work of fiction; it was created for entertainment purposes only.

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**Author's Note:** In honor of Swinging Cloud's SUMMER OF SMUT (always all caps), in which she has planned a series of Wanky Wednesday posts (she's so damned clever with the alliteration and shit) for your reading pleasure. In an effort to not look like a total noob in the face of her literary glory, I give you this. Just a little (_very _NSFW) something to keep y'all busy in between working on the next chapters for Mine and Pain. Enjoy!

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It's dark. At first, that's all you can register. Dark doesn't even seem to express it, though. It's oppressive and humid, clinging to your skin, weighing you down with its unforgiving heat. Your eyes search desperately through the inky blackness surrounding you, but they find nothing. No light whatsoever, no visible hint as to your location. You blink sluggishly a few times, hoping it will help to adjust your eyesight at least a little, but your vision remains stubbornly blank. You glance down at where you suppose your body must be. You can feel it, you know it's there, but it unnerves you not to be able to _see_ it too. The sound of your own breathing fills your ears. Something is keeping your mouth shut - you can feel it clinging stiffly to your lips and cheeks - tape? It forces you to breath through your nose.

Deep breaths. You are calm. You are calm. You are calm. Deep breaths.

You pull your arms in to drape them across your chest - they're stretched out to either side of you for some reason, creating a straight line across your shoulders from fingertip to fingertip. They comply with your intentions for about two inches, then stop suddenly, halted by the tightening of silken fabric looped around your wrists. You hadn't noticed the bonds before, so fine they are against your skin. You tug again, twisting your wrists at the same time, but the loops only pull tighter, refusing to yield despite their delicate nature.

Deep breaths. You are calm, you are calm, you are...calm. Deep breaths.

Next you try your legs, hoping against hope that they will be free. They are not. You are sitting, that much you can tell, though only just. Something padded is pressing the lower half of your body forward, keeping you, quite literally, on the edge of your seat. There are more silky loops at your knees, catching against their sweat-dampened insides. And at your ankles, keeping your feet close to the ground. The floor underneath you is cool and unyielding. Slate tiles, probably. You're pretty sure you're on the casting couch in your office. Your heart rate increases as you begin to form a mental picture of your position. You can tell you're slouching somewhat, so that the weight of your upper torso forces your hips forward. You test the bindings again. They keep your arms in place, your legs spread wide apart, leaving you open. Vulnerable. Exposed.

Deep breaths. You are calm you are calm you are calm. Deep breaths, but a little faster now.

You shift against the chair - your couch? The fabric is rough against your bare shoulders and arms, but not painfully so. You can feel fabric pull across your chest and stomach. A tank top, you think, or a camisole And your hips and backside. Underwear, if their shortness is anything to go by. You toss your head and lean forward as much as possible, pulling against your restraints. Your hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail, lashes against your neck before settling down your back, making you shiver.

Faster breaths. Stay calm stay calm stay-

A door opens, letting in a faint stream of silvery light. Is it night time? The door closes quickly and soundlessly, cutting off the weak glow and plunging you back into darkness.

You sit, breathing heavily, trying not to let your chest heave with each nervous inhale. It's _so_ warm in here. You can feel the sweat starting to bead across your skin. You stay silent, lips still sealed shut. Your throat is too constricted for vocalizing, even if they weren't. You swallow once, thickly.

There's a click, then a blinding circle of light appears before you, forcing you to squint and turn your head away from its harshness. It moves slowly, sliding across your arms, down your chest, over your legs, caressing your bronze skin and making it glisten under the roving beam. You watch the area around the light's source carefully, hoping to pick up even the barest hint of a shadow. Nothing. Another click, and the light is gone. There are spots before your eyes, ruining what little night vision you had.

Quick, shaky breaths. You are not calm.

There's a shuffling noise, the sound of fabric brushing against more fabric. It stills for a moment. Suddenly your vision is flooded with brilliant light. You flinch and try to curl in on yourself, eyes slamming shut against the onslaught of brightness. The bonds hold you fast, keeping everything but your head from moving.

"Santana Lopez, Casting Director Extraordinaire, I presume? I'm so pleased we're finally meeting after all this time. You're a difficult woman to tie down for an audition, you know." The voice is feminine and lilting. Cheerful even. In any other situation, you might even think it pretty. Almost against your will, your eyelids fly open and your head snaps up. That voice is familiar.

The woman standing by your door is stunningly beautiful, dressed in a threadbare designer tee and artfully ripped skinny jeans. Her blonde hair is swept back in an elegantly simple bun, and her makeup is minimal, but expertly applied. Her eyes are cat-like with their strange slant, and hypnotically blue. She smiles lightly, seemingly amused by your unabashed staring.

There's a thud, and your eyes drop to the messenger bag at her feet. The strap still dangles loosely from her fingers

"I hope you don't mind, Ms. Lopez, but I brought a couple...props for my audition. I thought it might be good to show you how versatile I can be. It took so long nail you down for this meeting, I really just want to give this my all."

Her words are dripping with innuendo, and her eyes are getting darker with each syllable. You struggle to put a face to her name - you _know_ you've seen her before. Your mind comes up blank, and you curse yourself inwardly.

She saunters over to you, hips swaying with each slow step, a taunting smirk pulling at her pink lips. The messenger bag drags along behind her, its contents clattering against the stone flooring. Your pulse quickens with fear and...something else. You push it aside. You struggle against the silk ties in vain, eyes growing wider the nearer she gets.

She stops right in front of you, her knees brushing the insides of your thighs, making your muscles contract. With a feathery touch, she drags her fingers across your right arm, starting at your wrist and moving in until she reaches your chest. Her nails scrape lightly over your collarbone, dancing down your chest to brush over the tops of your breasts. Goosebumps erupt across your skin and your breath catches in your chest.

Just as her fingers dip beneath the fabric of your camisole, you realize you're not wearing a bra. Her hand slides down to cup your breast, and her thumb brushes over your nipple. It hardens immediately, and you can feel your face flush with shame and anger. The fear is beginning to wane under the barrage of sensations her actions are creating within you, but you cling to it fiercely, determined not to succumb.

You shift in an unconscious attempt to close your legs, forgetting entirely about the restraints in your desperate need to contain your arousal. She seems to know what your body is doing before you do, because she times a swift pinch of your nipple perfectly with your movements so that instead your hips thrust forward lewdly. A noise somewhere between a squeak and moan vibrates from your throat, and is only slightly muted by the tape covering your mouth.

Your face flushes even deeper, and a bead of sweat slides down from your temple to your jaw, dripping onto your chest. A long, pale finger swipes it up and brings up it to smirking pink lips. She licks the sweat from her finger, and there's nothing for you to do but stare, transfixed.

She chuckles deep in her throat and drops to her knees before you. Gently, she lifts your right breast out of your shirt and begins to suckle it. Her mouth is hot and wet against your sensitive skin, and each pulling suck sends a spear of heat straight to your center. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head as you try not to moan under her ministrations. Then she moves to your left breast.

She gives it the same thorough attention as the other, alternating between quick, popping sucks and long strokes with the flat of her tongue. Your head lolls back against the couch and your body quakes, helpless against her merciless onslaught. Somewhere in the back of your brain, a small voice cries out against her, screaming at you to fight back, resist, do _anything._

The sound of your camisole being torn in half silences it.

You look down in shock to see your chest and stomach completely exposed. A small part of you shudders at the impressive display of strength. It wasn't exactly thick fabric, but it's still enough to give your seething mind pause.

The woman pays no heed to your reaction, instead dragging her mouth down your belly, nipping at your flesh as she goes, leaving a trail of saliva and tingling nerves in her wake. Her hands drop to your thighs, gripping them tightly. You gasp and try not to buck when her tongue rims your navel, dipping in and out a few times. Your mind struggles with itself, trying not to imagine that tongue repeating its actions somewhat...lower.

It's wrong. You know it is. She's your captor, and you're her victim, but all you can really concentrate is the constant pulsing of your clit.

Her mouth continues its downward trajectory until it reaches the waistband of your panties. She lips at the elastic briefly, then pulls away. It's all you can do not to groan in frustration, and your body's betrayal sends a heatwave of mortification burning across your cheeks again.

"Well, that will never do. Forgive me for breaking character, Ms. Lopez. I just need to adjust some of the scenery. It won't take but a moment."

Without any further warning, she grips the waistband of your panties above either leg and gives a sharp tug. The fragile garment gives way easily, snapping from your body with a single jerk of her hands. The material slides out from under you in a rough scrape of lace against skin.

She tosses the ruined underwear over her shoulder carelessly, eyes already fastened on your swollen cunt. Before you can so much as whimper out a protest, she slips a single digit inside, and it's out again before your moan finishes.

"Not quite ready yet, I think," she says slyly, despite the humiliating evidence of your 'readiness' liberally coating her finger.

She reaches down to the all but forgotten bag, still at her knees, and produces from it a bottle. With a teasing smirk, she uncaps it and begins to drizzle thick, clear liquid over your chest and down your belly. When your torso is completely covered, she caps the bottle again and lets it drop to the couch beside you.

Her hands start running over your body, smearing the lubricant in an even layer over your skin. The feel of her hands gliding slickly over your heated flesh is the best kind of heaven and the worst kind of hell all at once.

Her thumbs toy relentlessly with your nipples, pinching and rolling and rubbing them until they positively ache.

She moves her palms down over your stomach to slide over your hips, spreading the lube to your thighs, but skimming right past your throbbing folds. Her fingertips dance dangerously close numerous times, mocking your obvious need and making it grow with each confident stroke.

Just when you're certain you'll either die from overstimulation or extreme embarrassment at how wet you've become, she changes tactics. Her hands leave your body completely to reach for the bag again, and you nearly scream with vexation. A single, frustrated tear trickles down your cheek, but you're so beyond caring at this point you barely even notice its presence.

She stands swiftly, and your eyes widen in shock when the bag falls from her hands to reveal a harness and a bright purple phallus. Without ceremony, she tugs the harness on over her jeans and snaps the dildo in place. You swallow hard, slightly intimidated by its size, but mostly clamoring internally for her to end your delicious torment.

She grabs the bottle of lube again, grinning rakishly when her movement causes the dildo to press briefly against your thigh. You don't even bother fighting the way your pelvis tries to follow it, desperate as you are.

Any thoughts of fear or impropriety are long since gone, destroyed by your overwhelming need for release.

"And now, Ms. Lopez," she announces grandly as she begins to stroke the dildo with a lube-covered fist, "for the grand finale." She pauses for a moment until you tear your eyes from her pumping hand to meet her gaze. "The climax, if you will," she purrs. You shudder again.

She drops once more to her knees, and the low seat of your couch puts your hips and hers perfectly level. Bracing her hands once more on your sweat and lubricant soaked thighs, she allows the length of the phallus to slide through your heat, pushing inexorably against your swollen, hypersensitive clitoris.

Then, without warning, she plunges in, bottoming out inside you. A wanton cry tears its way from your chest, voicing your equal shock and pleasure at the sudden intrusion. She immediately begins pounding away brutally, working her hips in rhythmic figure-eights that soon have you panting heavily.

You can feel yourself starting to grow lightheaded, unable to pull in enough oxygen through your nose. She must notice, because in the next second the tape is ripped from your mouth. You gasp gratefully and gulp huge lungfuls of air, desperate to catch your breath. Her pace never slows or breaks, and you never succeed.

She brings you nearly to the brink of sanity, keeping her hips pumping just quick enough to hold you at the edge, but never enough to send you over. You spend what seems like an eternity at that brink, your head tossing wildly and your body straining against its captivity. You don't even notice her right hand move in on your thigh until her thumb starts rubbing rough circles over your clitoris.

It takes only a second or two for you to plunge headlong into a great, wracking orgasm. Your entire body convulses violently and your vision whites out. Your jaw drops in a silent scream.

She keeps up her rhythm through the torrential waves of pleasure coursing through your body, only slowing when you finally collapse bonelessly against the couch, utterly spent. Distantly you can feel her pull out, and an exhausted whimper escapes your lips.

The last thing you feel is a tender kiss brushing against your lips, then you're gone.

* * *

You wake to find yourself swathed in blankets with a warm, naked body pressed up behind you, spooning you fully. You sigh and stretch your legs, wincing a little at the dull ache between your legs.

"San?"

"Hey, baby."

"Hi."

You giggle a little at the shyness evident in Brittany's voice. It never fails to amaze you, how quickly she can shift from confident to meek in no time at all. Though, you smirk contentedly to yourself, you're pretty sure quite a bit of time has passed in this instance. You turn onto your back with supreme effort, slipping your arm between your girlfriend's neck and her pillow. She immediately worms in closer and tucks her head under your chin. You're still exhausted, and your grin gains a certain wicked curve to it.

"How was I, San? Was that...was that okay?"

You breathe out a silent laugh and pull her even closer, heedless of the way her skin sticks to yours.

"God, Britt, that was...There aren't even words to describe how mindbogglingly amazing that was. You were incredible, baby. And so, so sexy."

You feel her cheek move against your chest, and beam in reaction to the smile you can't see.

"I mean, hell, Brittany, I literally _passed out_ on you." A thought occurs to you, dimming your expression somewhat. "Fuck, Britt, I passed out. I'm so sorry, baby. Did you need me to-"

She peels herself from your side to fix you with an amused look. "I'm fine San, really." Her eyes sparkle with mirth as she runs right over your protest with a repeated, "_Really,_ San."

You roll your eyes and huff in fake irritation, but it doesn't last for more than a couple seconds before you both collapse into giggles. She settles herself back onto your chest with a happy sigh, fingers stroking languorously up and down your side. You wrap your arms even tighter around her and press a kiss to the top of her head before surrendering to weariness.

"Happy Birthday, San. I love you so much."


End file.
